


Ex Corde Et Animo

by goatsongs



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: 18 month period, Diary/Journal, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Infection, Intrusive Thoughts, Isolation, Quarantine, Rating is for mentions of sex, Shame, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Wilde loves his friends very much, and wholesome moments of friendship and admiration, there is also some singing, these are not explored in too much detail, warning: the fic faces darker themes as it progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24654568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goatsongs/pseuds/goatsongs
Summary: 'I rather hope my soul and this diary disappear into the flames of omission.'
Relationships: Commander Barnes & Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming), Howard Carter & Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming), Oscar Wilde & Everyone (Rusty Quill Gaming), Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde (implied)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 42





	1. before: quarantine n. 1

**Date: xx/xx/xxxx  
**   
  
We have just arrived in Japan, and we are undergoing the designated seven days of quarantine in an inn on the small island of Okunoshima. The air is damp and bitter, and I am locked in this cell with Howard Carter. He does nothing but lament the absence of liquor, which is how I am inclined to believe no blue veins have yet claimed him. But it is merely the first day out of the seven, of what will probably be the first of many week long quarantines. 

Though I am no longer cursed, it seems, the anti-magic field helps bring me sleep in a way that sleeping in a comfortable bed has not. My great appreciation for comfort has worn out slowly over the past months and I am no longer able to lay back on my shoulders and breathe in, even if I could allow myself smelling salts and candles and silk sheets as I could before the break. The most comfortable and secure I feel now is with my curved back against the stone wall, my body aching, the dampness seeping into my cracking skin, the heavy breathing of my quarantine companion arising from the opposite side of this cell, too small for any two humans to share sensibly. As I lay my head down I sometimes try to remember what a warm naked body feels like against warm skin, what flush and sweat look like in the widowed moonlight. I sometimes ache for the bliss of being spent and exhausted and drifting into the realms of sleep alongside a partner, with no fear or dread to share. I think many things about my past I used to take for granted, even shunned in the fog of my shallowness. My priorities have changed to the most simple and basic desire. Not sex, not recognition, attention, praise, power. Not even to survive. For to stay alive is nothing but a mere requirement for fixing the crack in the earth. For the people who now roam the streets of London undespairingly covered in blue misfortune to return to a life of joy and indulgence. This I want at the price of sacrificing my own past self to this cause. 

There are times I wish I had not dwelled in fame and popularity amongst the British upper classes, for I would not accept to be remembered as a martyr if I die for the world to be whole again. I rather hope my soul and this diary disappear into the flames of omission. Thankfully hope is still with me. I have not lost it all quite yet, and Captain Barnes and Mr Smith shall join shortly as we await our next mission from Madame Curie. The need to amend shines bright in my chest as I grasp onto the loss and grief I have stored inside myself since the break. 

* * *

  
  


**Date: xx/xx/xxxx**

Today Carter asked me to sing to him. He was sat on the cold hard floor, flicking playing cards into the air and making a right mess of our small shared space stained with boredom, and worry, but order has not defined my life for the longest time now, and I find myself deeply missing the times when my duties would consist only of futile administrative work and a landscape of loose papers strewn across office rooms. 

Circumstances have led me away from the glorious pleasure of the appreciation of art, of which music is one of its noblest forms. So upon the request, surprising to me as it might have been, I decided to indulge in both our desire for something to break the pattern. In reality one could live through worse than a single week of immobility, but should one do so in such a moment, when action is essential for the preservation of all that is good and lovely in the world, seven days seem to trudge past at a pace too slow to measure. 

So I did sing, for the first time in quite a long time, without feeling the surge of magic spreading to the edges of my limbs and up to my cheekbones. No, it was a different sort of warmth that seeped within my veins of blood in the reddest of shades, and hopefully, nothing more. With no music to accompany me, no way to occupy my hands, no keys to press with my eyes closed, no cushion to feel beneath my form or smell of polished mahogany or gasps of delighted guests, I sang. I sang the bittersweet tale taught to me in my green childhood to which I barely turn a thought most often, and felt with awe the words come to me with not memory but something else, as if the muscles of my soul were coloured with the joys of my youth, though I hardly remember it as it passed me by in flashes of sun and family dinners and my home by the Irish seas of rich black and silver in the night. 

As I sang, relishing in the rare silence of my cell companion, I thought back with a pang of grief I will now allow myself to explore, albeit briefly. The disappearance of my friends abrades with no kindness upon my broken soul, and not for the first time I wish I could be foolish enough to abandon my mission to join them in their exodus in Rome. Despite the obvious danger of their possible death, I still find it in my heart to hope for their return, although as time piles onto their shoulders and the world shifts more into the demise of the self for each infected, the hope dwindles more. 

Like a child did I accept and bask sweetly in Carter’s laud at my singing voice, until I remembered that my primary intention must be one of seriousness and anguish for the times we are in. It is surprisingly difficult to maintain in the presence of this man with his ludicrous histrionics and utter inability to remain solemn. I found myself missing the quelling presence that Barnes seems to have on Carter within the party. Him and Mr Smith will return when the seven days are done, ~~I hope~~ I am sure.   
  


* * *

**Date: xx/xx/xxxx**

I am glad I have a mission. To be imprisoned in a quarantine one does not know the length of, with each day doubling over the next in an endless and consecutive string of isolation in a single place and the atrophy which comes with it, both intellectual and physical, must be excruciating. Here, in this cell, the days have gone by slowly and trudgingly, as Carter continues to complain profusely and his conversation flows in a continuous stream for most of the mornings, even while he hunches over his game of solitaire. Thankfully he is a heavy sleeper, which leaves me much of the late afternoons and nights, although one can only speculate on the exactitude of such musings on time, to write. 

For me it might not end well, perhaps this disease will take me, but I will have done whatever most I can do with my team. Madame Curie insists I send them off on our missions and keep myself safe, and I suspect these continue to be her plans since she has offered to buy out the inn as my new headquarters, but I must say this truthfully and will no doubt bring it swiftly to her attention: I cannot stand to wait around as people follow my orders. To trust someone is a great thing and I cannot deny that I greatly trust my team, but to leave them to do my dirty work and let their hands stain with blood while I pour over my loathed paperwork would appear to me a worse crime than to die in battle. And, with all that which is weighing down on us, I still feel optimistic.

* * *

**Date: xx/xx/xxxx**

The infection, unsurprisingly, has not claimed us, but we must spend one last night in this rotting cell of ours. Carter has become disquieted and is pacing in circles around the small space as I write. The innkeeper has brought us sufficient food and drink in silence for the week, and I am sure he holds information on the whereabouts of the rest of our team. He is forbidden to deliver it to us just yet, but my nature, being less inclined toward sleep as it is, cannot bear the wait. I am afraid that with the tension vibrating within my chest and my quarantine companion so unaccustomed to perpetual sobriety and pacing the room incessantly, I shall not be welcomed by Hypnos tonight.   
  
  



	2. before: quarantine n.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I am quarantined with the whole team, which is excruciating in ways I did not anticipate.'

**Date xx/xx/xxxx**

Life on the island is treating us well. Rather, better than Europe. We do return to Europe often to carry out missions, but the downtime that Japan allows us is valuable for our extensive research into this infection, and my observation on the various leads I have picked up over the last few months. While I shall not bore this diary or any reader that might come across it with my endless speculations on the great affliction that hits us, Mr Smith has told me he is continuing his own work regarding the Kraken he had begun looking into while travelling with the Harlequins. Throughout our time spent in Japan I have come to discover many more things about ~~Zolf~~ Mr Smith I had not been aware of since our previous meeting in Paris. It is perhaps crucial to note the great changes he has been through since his departure from the rest of the party and his direct collaboration with Earhart, of all people, that have been so significant as to modify his physical appearance remarkably. Though the differences were stark, he was recognisable as ever when we met in Cairo again to continue the mission briefly following the break. He seems to have abandoned the cult of Poseidon, but has not seemed to have lost the powers that might normally exclusively accompany a clerical position. I find this very curious and my inquisitive nature has often brought me to the brink of opening discussion with him, but I have never been quite brave enough to ask for his own conjectures on the matter. I remain quite certain that he no longer responds to the god and fervently denies any ties to the sea, though many a time I have pointed out his insistence on being regarded as a skilled sailor. In truth I have observed him many times, sat by the sea, looking over the darkened and stormy waves. I believe it was Euripides who said the sea washes away the stains and wounds of the world, and so it does for him as well. 

The weather worsens as the weeks course by. 

  
  


* * *

**  
  
Date xx/xx/xxxx**

I am quarantined with the whole team, which is excruciating in ways I did not anticipate. Thankfully the second time around we had planned ahead and stocked the cell with appropriate pastimes, cards, crosswords and the like, as well as a good few of those ghastly Campbell books Mr Smith has enough atrocious taste in literature to appreciate. He spends his days sat with his head buried in them, and the only noises he seems to make are occasional muttered comments and peculiar grunts. I have surprised myself many a time today with the reflection that while Carter is ceaselessly bothersome, he at least manages to deign me with the tiniest bit of consideration, whereas Mr Smith appears uninterested in anything that hasn’t to do with the probably unstateably horrifying plots of those books.

In truth I do not mind spending most of the time indulging Mr Carter in his mindless card games, although things get far more amusing when he grows sick of me and decides that a better use for the cards are for them to be flicked across the room and into ~~Zo~~ Mr Smith’s face, such as has already happened countless times over three days of quarantine. It is a great entertainment to watch the two men quarrel, although no physical fights have broken out. I rather suspect this is not out of lack of animosity, but rather lack of mobility on Mr Smith’s part. Though we are congested in our very small shared space, spending these fruitless parentheses of time with these men is not all that bad. 

* * *

  
  
**Date xx/xx/xxxx**

Rereading my entries I realise I have never talked about Commander Barnes. This is a chance to also ask myself the reason as to why I have such difficulty putting this man of such few words into words myself. I contacted Barnes just as he seemed to be preparing to leave Dover after I reconvened with Mr Smith, who was at the time still under the jurisdiction of Amelia Earhart and initiating research on the mechanical Kraken in the strait of Gibraltar and surrounding seas. I remember the encounter extremely well, because the tension between the commander and Mr Smith himself were quite noticeable, especially given the fact that both men are extremely unable to navigate a conversation. The recruitment was starting to appear quite difficult when Commander Barnes asked after ~~Miss Ra-~~ Sasha, and reacted gracefully to my news. I remember thinking Howard Carter should learn a thing or two from him, but I believe my thought has found completion now, after the first few months of working together. Of course Carter is as ungraceful as ever in conversation, although the same cannot be said about him when he finds himself in battle, handling too many knives to keep track of with breathtaking elegance. 

Had the situation been different, Commander Barnes would have certainly caught my fancies, at least to start with, but after Damascus, my recovery from the curse and Barnes’, it must be said, dullness, I couldn’t bring myself to think as I always had. I’ve come to find that what Carter lacks in grace, Commander Barnes lacks in bravado, and I do like a man with a little flare. 

Aside from these foolish musings, rather more reminiscent of the Oscar Wilde I used to be, before the break and before Damascus, I am proud to say my choice in associates has been of exceptional quality. Commander Barnes is an extremely skilled combatant and quick to deal with hidden dangers, his natural tendency toward suspicion and attentiveness saving us much grief on several occasions. Mr Carter, whom I do complain about extensively, has proven his incredible craft in breaking and entering, trap disabling, and a sense of direction so sharp I have found myself doubting my own senses in favour of trusting his. It is not my initial fascination with Carter that leads me to now say that he is a joy to work with, even in the hardest of times. 

* * *

  
  


**Date xx/xx/xxxx**

While being quarantined in such a small space with not only one but all three of my companions is harrowing in many ways, something truly delightful happened today. Carter, much to my initial embarrassment, requested I sing again in front of Mr Smith and Commander Barnes. I’ve never been a particularly shy man but the request seemed so daunting to begin with, I almost refused him. However I bravely downed my drink, kindly provided by Carter’s absolute obsession with getting grogged during quarantine, and did, indeed, sing. I chose to sing another of the tunes which was sung to me as a boy. As unremarkable as the performance might have been, it seems to have been greatly enjoyed by my ~~fr~~ associates. To my great surprise and delight, upon finishing, Mr Smith revealed to us a strong and compelling singing voice as he chanted what I can only imagine was one of the shanties he learned during his time as a sailor. True to my musings, Commander Barnes joined in soon enough, his voice rougher and his manner reticent, yet full of pride and joy to be privy to such character and shared history which is that of sailors. It was quite delectable to experience as a member of the audience, and even the innkeeper entered to listen, keeping a safe distance. I grow certain by the hour that no infection has claimed our spirit yet. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Barnes and Zolf sing is 'Leave Her Johnny' because I don't know much about shanties but I like this one a lot and it's not too pirate-y. 
> 
> I love them all so much and in my fic, Howard is genuinely a sweetheart all the time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Before our mission I was informed by Madame Curie that my old friend --- has been, to my request, contacted, and shall make his way to Japan soon."

**  
Date xx/xx/xxxx**

I must truthfully admit that since the break the Harlequins have been to me an amazing resource, and though I do not claim to be entirely ideologically involved with them I have grown to appreciate the ways they have helped me. Had I known how vulnerable the meritocracy was to infiltration, I would have appreciated Captain Earhart’s reaction to my mere mention as a distrust of the system rather than a personal offence. As it stands she continues to be aggressive and distrustful of my personal collaboration, as I have been informed by Madame Curie, who has been my point of contact with the rest of the Harlequins. I appreciate Madame Curie's resolve, although I resent her treatment of me and have time and time again requested she not weigh her words with me as if I were a fastidious child under her care. 

Not to mention her insistence on berating me about how, in her words, ‘pallid and thin’ I look. It is certainly a blessing she did not see me during my recovery in Damascus. 

**Date xx/xx/xxxx  
**   
  
Sleep eludes me once again. I listen to the snores of my companion as I write. My thoughts drift easily to the first time we met, now months ago, which I still find it in me to consider greatly amusing. Inviting myself into young Hamid’s quarters was by far one of the easiest things I had to do, and provided me with quite an entrance. Of course my dwellings with Sir Bertrand, while successful on both a recreational, monetary, and as it turns out indeed, moral fronts, takes on such a different form now that time has passed enough for me to realise how degrading it was to have so ruined the first impression the party had of me with my vulgarity. Though I had never before put much consideration into the moral integrity of the men I would take to bed during my relatively high life in London, the character of Sir Bertrand revealed itself to be quite the tragedy, as was, of course, his untimely demise. As I should very much hate to speak ill of the dead, let us simply remember his ~~admittedly few~~ good deeds. Even if such deeds were performed with less than noble intentions. And despite everything he did look quite wonderful in that shade of peacock blue. What surprised me most about the whole ordeal, as I have discovered recently, was that it was Sir Bertrand himself to have driven Mr Smith away from the mercenary group that was under his own employment at the time, as I truly didn’t believe him to have such power. On second thought, however, I realise how infuriating Sir Bertrand could be when not occupied in _other pursuits_ , to put it gracefully. 

Alas musings such as these serve no purpose but to boredom and self-indulgence. This quarantine is rotting my brain. 

  
  


**Date xx/xx/xxxx**

Before our mission I was informed by Madame Curie that my old friend **\---** has been, to my request, contacted, and shall make his way to Japan soon. Of course he must also follow procedure and undergo seven days of quarantine, but I must say I am thoroughly delighted for him to be joining the team. He is wonderfully skilled with a longsword and I remember this because I watched him extensively during our delightful summer together in 18xx. **\------------** **  
****  
**

Though it weighs on my heart to have gone through as much as I have for the better part of two years, which has undeniably changed and depleted my character as I had constructed it in my youth, I feel it is important to state that I do not feel young any longer. The year I spent fuelled on nothing but pride and the very magic that was keeping me trapped in the fogs of sleep deprivation, has aged me and pushed me into realms of existence the young Oscar would frown upon as squalid and pitiful would I allow him to talk without a good beating. No, I am very old in my soul. But I can still remember with ease the youth I spent red cheeked and fed by nothing but passion, parties and the simple art of love, as simple as it was before the very existence of a relaxing day in the sun could be considered ludicrous and naive. 

This youth I shared with many men and boys like myself, discussing the ins and outs of the passion filled verses of one such poet or another, or reading out my own written verses with a mask of pride and a face of arrogance, which bled into my performance as I’d step on chairs and recite each sentiment with charisma and carefully constructed design. 

And so I think back to those wonderful weeks spent basking in the sun and sharing all kinds of intimacies, And I think perhaps I have a wondrous grasp on what his eyes look like when filled with emotion and looking into mine. As I found comfort in meeting again with Mr Smith, who I had barely known for a few weeks, I will be doubly glad to behold the familiar face of my old friend which whom I have often shared passionate correspondence in the years since the one we spent at each other’s side, him playing cricket with himself and I, sprawled upon the garden chair, refusing to wake myself out of the stupor of his beloved form, all to consume our love or simply draw him into the house for a whisky and a talk of all that we shared. 

**Date xx/xx/xxx**

Mr Smith, who is my only current quarantine companion, has quite aggressively insisted I be weary of newcomers, though I have explained that my good friend is hardly a newcomer but rather a man I would trust with my life as well as a stupendous spellcaster in his own right. Perhaps due to his foul mood the past few days he is refusing to discuss the matter further, and has once more buried his head in those god awful novels.

  
  


**Date xx/xx/xxxx**

As the last day of our quarantine draws to a close, I purposefully avoid dwelling on the horrible risks of our time. I shall allow for the designated length of the quarantine to pass in it’s due course, but cannot deny a childlike excitement at being able to reunite with my dear friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter that has a fairly upbeat tone to it. At this point in time Wilde hasn't received his scar yet. Please do heed the tags with care from now on.


	4. after the break: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief, guilt, shame, and a new scar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags again! This fic does have a somewhat hopeful ending, but it briefly touches some heavy themes.

  
**xx/xx/xxxx**

  
  
I am quarantined alone.  
  


* * *

  
**xx/xx/xxxx**  
  
  
  
  
My skin feels tight. Is this how I go?

* * *

  
**xx/xx/xxxx**   
  
  
  
  
~~My heart is as shattered as my body, and as disfigured as my face.~~

* * *

  
  
**xx/xx/xxxx**  
  
  
How I came to your beck and call  
Tis but a sliver of hope  
Like a trickle of blood In this cell much like a tomb  
I look out to the stone  
And reach my hand to touch you  
\----  
 ~~How something broken~~  
 ~~Can cause such sorrow~~  
\---  
Death awaits,  
In blues and greys and whites  
  


* * *

  
**xx/xx/xxxx**

  
  
Should I dare to flounder again, repeat the vicious error of my ways, ~~vile repugnant degenerate fool~~ , may I be devoured by the sea, may my foul body drown in the Sea, my Mother once, and my Reaper now.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was short and sad so I will be posting the next one tomorrow. 
> 
> Leave kudos or a comment you're enjoying it!


	5. after the break: 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ramblings of a wounded man.

Insomnia creeps with vengeance upon my brow. The hideous scar across my face paints my reflection with such grim colours I cannot bring myself to look. I no longer study my face move as I did, think of the silk garments worn in vanity and beauty no close to the things in life which matter most, Love, and our closeness to Death, though it is not death I fear in the walls of this rubbled world. It is that love takes its victims no quicker than the disease, it takes the second watch in the night, it does not linger but brings strings together which may have well never touched. For love to be such, it is of the most dreadful quality, grasping and gasping with pity and shame, not shared in whimful afternoons of sun and lemonade, but crystalised in the fearful meeting of eyes rimmed with bitterness and frustration. I see this love not for myself but in others, for I am existing in this cell as alone as I remain in this world. Trust is fickle and crashes on the shore of my cheeks and my chest just as the waves crash on the shore of this island, and I must close my eyes and think back to all the ones I have loved without any returning the devotion, yet I am now too aware of how foolish it was for me to give up that love for the illusion of careful composition. I often wonder, how my heart would have turned out had I not let my pride devour me. Had I not let all the ways in which I felt to have control, when it was clear and transparent that I did not, dominate me to the point of complete implosion, where my very magic had to be forced out of me for a single hour of sleep. Back then when trust, though I so loathe to admit it, came so easy, when the skies were white at times, and gentle, when clouds were as lonely as wild daisies growing by the side of the road. How silly it is to be young, and how silly it is to feel a thousand years older when everything you held dear suddenly disappears in the clutches of a threat I do not know the nature of. I had grown used to having all the answers. 

I went rogue, Grizzop, like you said. But where are you? 

* * *

How broken I feel the bones in my back to be, muscles riddled with blue as they claim me. When will my mind go? When I surely must go, for the risk is too high, and at night I beg to go before anyone else whose face and spirit I hold dear, so as to never see the brightness of recognition leave their eyes, when I must go, it is imperative that I die. And so it is that I made a promise, though so foolish to trust another with such a plan, be they claimed by insidious disease, and the promise must be held. I shall not let my body serve a mind that is not entirely my own, I should be killed, my body burned. I care not for a grave. Graves are nothing but comfort for loved ones, and no loved ones of mine shall ever return nor shall they approach my grave with such a privilege as a complexion free of death and mind-control. Should I go, as so certainly I shall if this war is not to end before my demise, it should be on my terms. 

* * *

I have lost my voice, heart and spirit, though have not been yet taken. Why must I be the lucky one, say, why not Sasha, or dear Hamid, devoured by forces unknown to us to this day? To be alive in the wake of death is the most terrible and agonising occupation. This I must say, how much I took for granted at the hands of youth and high life, how Love could not be my priority while I pirouetted around halls made of marble and silk and now? Who do I have left but a dragon lost to the skies of the East, and three other men as fallible as me? 

My body trembles with fear, and yet I cannot help but hope every day, and the hope is like a parasite made to inflict more pain and strife on the soul as tragedy hits time and time again. That is all life is. Hoping for lost causes. 

* * *

I think of my friends, dead in a place none should ever hope to die for its foulness, and I cannot take it. The man to which I lose my resolve to not hope brings me tea each morning and good food each day. He watches me with eyes so full of worry and pity and all I see is the grief my actions have caused him over the past month, and I see I am no better than him grieving the death of his brother by his own hand, as I am grieving my friends by my own hand. This I said to him and he broke at the mention of his brethren, and again I caused him pain with my vitriol. He still brings me tea and the care he extends to me almost seems akin to love, and how my heart breaks at the thought of never wanting to lay in the arms of another man again. One ugly scar is quite enough. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I care Wilde so much, I'm. I . hh
> 
> Anyway we have one more chapter which I will post some time early next week. Thank you for all the kind comments, know that I read them and re-read them and appreciate them to no end, it seriously means so much to me that people are enjoying this tiny fic.


	6. after the break: 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life has a funny way of surprising you sometimes.

* * *

**xx/xx/xxxx**

It has been more than a year since Damascus. It hurts to think, but perhaps if Grizzop’s goddess allowed him into her holy plane, the others might have followed. Their death in this war shall not be fruitless. 

Every day that passes I reflect on how the twists of life and circumstances make up who we all are. It is a moment I spend alone in peace in the quiet, thankful for the silence of my thoughts, and I think of Sasha, how I miss her, how I miss my dear friends. Perhaps it is selfish of me to be grateful that they never had to see how their world broke after they disappeared.   
  
The thought is foolish, I know this very well. But sometimes, I almost want to believe that it was them, holding it together. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, to me, a hopeful ending, because very soon in the timeline of the RQGverse in which this fic fits, Azu and Hamid will return to their own plane of existence in Rome and make their way to Japan. Wilde will refuse to believe they are not infected, until it is proven that they are not. And soon after that, he'll receive news that Sasha lived the long and happy life she deserved. 
> 
> So to me, Wilde will be forced, despite not wanting to, to feel hope. And I think that's neat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Oscar ([oscarlovesthesea](https://twitter.com/oscarlovesthsea)) for being my beta and for the endless support, and thank you to everyone I have bothered by pasting bits of this fic all around the place as I've written it.  
> Thank you to the cast of Rusty Quill Gaming for the feelings you have made me feel, for your great acting and for being wonderful people. Thank you to Alex J Newall for forcing me into writing again with his incredible story telling and world building. I respect his craft immensely. 
> 
> If you enjoy it please drop me a comment, or tweet me ([@jimmymagma](https://twitter.com/jimmymagma)). Check out my series [Rusty Quill Letters](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762531) and give me a prompt if you feel like it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
